


a welcome path

by nounderscore



Category: The Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 00:20:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13224273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nounderscore/pseuds/nounderscore
Summary: Irene retraces the thief's steps.





	a welcome path

**Author's Note:**

> Work is unbeta'd. Contains mentions of canon-typical violence.

 Irene surveyed the linen room with a keen eye. She remembered the night Moira had called out her name and roused her from sleep with the knowledge that the thief hid in the walls of her palace. The linens were undisturbed. There were no boot marks scuffed into the floor to suggest he had ever been here, no crumbs from filched pastries that he had taken from her kitchens.

 The linen room was a comfortable spot for a nap, she supposed. Not long ago, someone could have slept here on a hot, summer night without fear of discovery. A servant in need of a break, perhaps. A kitchen boy tired of Onarkus’s bidding. Now, the guards of the palace included the winter storage rooms in their rotations, and it was much more difficult to hide in them.

 She walked quietly to the exhaust tunnel tucked into the stone wall. She could squeeze through it into the hypocaust where she had smoked out the thief on the advice of the gods. It was a tight fit; Irene counted her breaths to push away the first stirrings of claustrophobia. If the thief could do this, so could she.

 She dropped gracelessly into the hypocaust, rocking forward onto her hands to keep from falling on her face. It was more spacious here, but roomier still, she suspected, for the thief. It was dark, and even as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she could hardly make out the brick pillars that held up the floor above her. She crawled with one hand sweeping ahead to ensure a clear path until she felt the telling air of a flue. Irene carefully laid on her back, ignoring the soot that was surely coating her hair and clothes, and reached out her hands to feel along the opening of the flue.

 Much too small for her to fit through, she thought, but the thief was smaller, leaner. He had the strength to hold up his weight as he crawled through the chimneys of her palace like it had been built to accommodate his every need instead of hers.

 She wiggled around and began making her way back to the linen room.

 Another route, then.

* * *

 

 The boots were a gift from Phresine, who had sharply taken note of Irene’s nightly patrols of her palace when she could not sleep. The trousers, however, were too short, and hardly stayed tucked into her boots.

 She tugged the lip of her boot up for the third time since she stepped into the alley. Her eyes traced the impossible jump the thief had taken to escape her guards. The distance seemed much too large for a single bound, but perhaps even the roofs colluded against her, tipping forward just enough for the thief to safely land.  
She was careful to practice not making a sound as she strolled along the palace walls. She stepped into the shadows when a guard from the parapet looked down in her direction. She darted ahead when he looked away, no warning bells sounding an intruder alert. Irene was both proud and annoyed.

 There was a portion of the old wall where the mortar had worn away, making excellent handholds to climb up and over. She’d spotted it a few months ago. Did the thief know of it? Irene should have the mortar repointed, but it pleased her to think she knew a secret of the palace grounds that the thief might not.

 Irene landed with a muffled thud on the other side. The streets of her capital were imprinted in her mind from a childhood where she had been long ignored. She took care to study the plans for any new construction, though it could hardly compare to walking the streets herself. It was good then, to get out every so often and reacquaint herself with Attolia.

 She mapped out the quickest path in her head, careful to avoid the candle lights burning on the window sills of those as restless tonight as she was. Maybe the thief knew a quicker one. He could scale the sides of shops, jump from roof to roof, blend into the dark or waltz right into a crowd like he wasn’t the extraordinary creature she knew him to be. Once, Irene had been a shadow princess, overlooked and unnoticed, and yet there was a part of her that could not believe that the thief could accomplish this, as well. She would know him in a crowd of hundreds, thousands.

 When she had reached the town wall, Irene investigated it closely for any weakness, any footholds a thief might use to scale his way into her city. Satisfied at the sheerness of her walls, she leapt into the ditch where she knew a sewer gate had been sawed straight through. She made a note to herself to have the gate replaced.  
She wrinkled her nose at the smell, but she was already covered into dirt. Irene folded in her arms and squeezed into the dark, wet tunnel, her shoulders only just on the right side of being narrow enough to fit. There, on the other side, was the olive orchard.

 There was no ambient glow from the city to light her way, but Irene had already been gallivanting about for hours. She jogged along to her destination, trusting her knowledge and sure feet to get her there safely.

 The board that had been nailed between two trees had already been removed, of course. It had done its job, felling the thief for her dogs and guards to capture. Irene traced her fingers where the nail holes were, her touch light enough to avoid splinters. The rest was history. Irene closed her eyes.

 It was time to go home.

* * *

 There might very well be other passageways that lead to her room, but Irene definitely knew of one. She pulled aside a tapestry and felt for the telltale groove of a particular stone. She heard the click of the door opening, and stepped into the passageway. Irene could smell her own stench as she moved with one hand pressed against the wall. She should have changed her clothes, she thought, but she had already been gone for so long.

 When she at last reached the end of the passage, manners dictated that she knock.

 Eugenides opened the door, hastily smothering the worry from his face when he saw her. “I thought you weren’t coming tonight,” he said, then pinched his nose when he got a whiff of her. “You smell like you just got out of the sewers,” he complained.

 “Yes,” Irene agreed. She had completely ruined the trousers he had left in her room last night, but she would have another pair made for him. She knelt down to unlace her boots.

 “I don’t think either of us will be able to sleep while you’re smelling like that.”

 “I’ll be sure to clean up then,” Irene said. “Send for some warm water.” Her husband’s eyes lit up.

 “You’ll have to sleep in one of my nightshirts.” Irene raised an eyebrow.

 “If you send for water quickly, I may sleep in nothing at all.” Eugenides laughed and blew her a kiss.

 “Your wish is my command, my queen,” he said. He looked her over, and Irene felt warm beneath his gaze. “What were you doing out, anyway?”

 Irene smiled at her husband.

 “Reminding myself how lucky I am,” she said, and kissed her husband’s cheek in spite of his protests about the smell of sewage.


End file.
